The Place Beside the Window

Margaret was waiting outside when the car reached her house.

Charles had seen his mother host ambassadors without stepping into the cold. Today she stood at the top of the path in a cardigan, gripping the sleeves in both hands.

Elena didn't wait for anyone to open her door.

She stepped out, took two hurried paces, and stopped.

"Mom."

Margaret came down the path so quickly that Charles almost called out about the uneven stones.

Then she reached her daughter.

Elena bent into the embrace. Margaret held the back of her head, fingers spread through the hair she had last touched when it reached her waist.

Charles watched his mother lift her face, look at Elena, and pull her close again.

"Let me see you," she kept saying, although she wouldn't release her long enough to do it.

Thomas stood beside the open car, looking toward the lake.

Daniel brought Charles's chair around in silence.

At last Margaret stepped back. Tears had gathered beneath her chin. Elena wiped them with the edge of her sleeve, a clumsy little gesture that undid Charles more thoroughly than the crying.

His mother looked past her.

She knew Thomas immediately. Charles saw the recognition before she spoke.

"Thank you for coming."

Thomas nodded. "Thank you for having me."

It was so painfully formal that Charles almost intervened. Then Margaret held out her hand, and Thomas took it.

They went inside.

Margaret had put fresh flowers in every room. Charles could smell something roasting in the kitchen. Beside the window stood a little basket of children's books that had not been there on his last visit.

She caught him looking.

"I wasn't sure what she liked."

"Bears," he said. "Repeatedly."

His mother laughed, a thin, unsteady sound.

They settled in the sitting room. Thomas took the end of the sofa nearest the door.

Margaret noticed. She moved her chair slightly so she could see him without turning away from the others.

"I knew your mother," she said.

Thomas looked up sharply.

"When?"

"You were three. She came to my foundation office. Richard had been sending money through an intermediary. She wanted me to hear from her that she hadn't known he was engaged when they first met."

Charles felt his shoulders tighten.

"You knew all that time?"

His mother looked at him. "That she had a child, yes. I met her once. I didn't know the details of what Richard arranged with Thomas years later until shortly before he died."

"Why didn't you tell him you'd met her?"

"At first, because I wanted one conversation in my marriage that he couldn't direct. Later, because I couldn't face reopening it."

Thomas looked down at his hands.

"My mother never told me."

"She brought a photograph," Margaret said. "You were standing beside a red bicycle. You looked furious."

Thomas's mouth parted slightly.

"The training wheel was bent."

"She said you intended to repair it yourself."

For the first time since they entered, Thomas sat back against the sofa.

Charles watched the small change. One remembered bicycle had reached a place none of Richard's documents could touch.

"She loved talking about you," Margaret continued. "I remember being angry that I liked her. She was kind, and I wanted someone easier to blame."

"You could blame Richard," Charles said.

"I did. I also stayed with him. Those are both true."

He had no ready answer.

Margaret twisted her wedding ring.

"When he became ill, he told me about the settlement. About Elena finding out. About the letter he was trying to write. I asked to meet Thomas. I thought perhaps I could say what Richard couldn't."

Thomas looked at her. "But you never did."

"No. After he died, I kept waiting for a time when I would feel less hurt and more generous. Then I began telling myself it was too late to intrude."

Elena stared at the carpet. Charles knew what she was hearing.

"You weren't protecting us," he said.

Margaret's eyes filled.

"No. Not as much as I told myself I was."

He looked at his mother, and the familiar arrangement of the room seemed to shift. She had always occupied the place beside the window, composed and gracious, asking questions that left little room to ask any of her.

Today she looked seventy-six and frightened.

Thomas spoke before Charles could.

"I don't want you to apologize for being hurt by my father."

Margaret shook her head. "I'm apologizing for letting you remain outside the door."

Thomas swallowed.

She reached for his hand, then paused. He moved his hand the rest of the way.

Charles looked toward the lake until he heard his brother breathe normally again.

Lunch was awkward at first.

Margaret had made enough food for twice their number. Elena tried to help in the kitchen, and they argued quietly over where the serving spoons belonged.

"You moved everything," Elena said.

"I moved house. I was entitled."

The answer came so quickly that both women stopped.

Then Elena laughed, and Margaret held the edge of the counter as though the sound had knocked something loose.

At the table, Charles asked Thomas to pass the potatoes.

Thomas passed them without looking.

Charles realized his brother had been included in a Whitmore family meal and nobody had made a speech to make it uncomfortable.

He took more potatoes than he wanted so he could enjoy that for another moment.

Mrs. Bell arrived with Lyla late in the afternoon.

The girl came through the door clutching her purple backpack. She had insisted on wearing her least troublesome shoes.

Margaret knelt carefully.

Lyla studied her face.

"Are you my grandma?"

"Yes, sweetheart. I am."

"Mommy said you have buttons."

Margaret blinked, then laughed through tears.

"Quite a lot of them."

"Can I see?"

"Of course."

Lyla considered her for another second, then stepped forward and hugged her around the neck.

Margaret closed her eyes.

Charles looked at Elena. She had covered her mouth with one hand, and this time she didn't try to hide why.

Later, Lyla sorted buttons at the coffee table while Margaret described the coat each one had come from. Thomas sat beside them, rescuing the small ones from rolling beneath the sofa.

Elena joined Charles near the window.

"I keep thinking she'll wake up tomorrow and remember she's angry," she said.

"She probably will."

Elena gave him a distressed look.

"Then you'll call her tomorrow," he said. "And the day after."

She looked toward their mother.

"You're still angry too."

"Yes."

"But you came."

Charles watched Lyla hold a gold button against Thomas's shirt to see whether it suited him.

"So did you," he said.

Before they left, Margaret asked when they would come again.

Charles waited for Elena to answer.

"Next Sunday?" she offered.

Margaret reached for her calendar, though Charles knew perfectly well she didn't need to check it.